When we had returned to the point of departure, Madeleine roused herself and sat up. “Now you know how it’s done,” she said, slipping on my shirt just as she had in my apartment. She walked to the window and swung the shutters open, letting in a waft of cool morning air. She leaned out and studied the sky. “It’s going to rain.” She turned and took the packet of cigarettes, lighting one.

“Why am I able to remember everything?”

“Because I made sure of it.”

“Can I do that?”

She sighed. “No. I wish you could. But you can’t. That’s why you need to write all of this down. You need proof. Evidence. Will you do that?”

I nodded.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“You must be hungry,” she said. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.” She disappeared for a moment, and naturally my first thought, upon being alone, was to wonder at what had just occurred. Something had happened—of that there was no doubt. I was even willing to call it a crossing. But what precisely was it? Had I been tricked somehow—or had I tricked myself? Was it possible for a mind to deceive itself thus? To be so malleable, so suggestible? I sighed. Madeleine had been right: I had my answer, but—just as she’d foretold—it wasn’t enough: my doubts were still niggling away at me, pushing me to know more, to understand, to be sure. But about love she had been wrong. I didn’t need to believe her to love her. I loved her now more than ever. That was an illusion about which I had not a shred of doubt.

She returned with a glass of water and a bowl full of black cherries. “It was all they were selling at the market.” I drank the water all at once and began devouring the cherries, the sweet dark juice exploding in my mouth with every bite.

“What happened with Chanel?”

“I went to see her,” I said between mouthfuls, “just as you asked. I couldn’t…”

“I know.”

“I had her, in a room, with the gun in my hand…” I raised my hand as if it were holding a gun. “But a gun without a bullet…” My fingers squeezed an imaginary trigger.

“I know.” She looked away. “Where’s the gun now?”

“Massu has it.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s with the police—the Brigade Spéciale at the Quai des Orfèvres. He knows about Chanel. He’s been keeping an eye on her for years. And he knows the tale of the albatross—although don’t worry, he doesn’t know anything about you. But he could be a friend for you, if you ever need one. It’s always useful to have a policeman for a friend. Just tell him I sent you. Tell him you know how the story ends.”

“I will.”

“And the nightclub?” I asked.

“What about it?”